A Study in Scoundrels Page 14

  “Who?” In her gut, she knew the answer. Before she could confirm her suspicion, heavy footsteps clip-clopped across the marble hallway floor, tracing Cate’s path.

  “Mrs. Cole, I wonder if I might trouble you for—” The bearded, bespectacled gentleman stopped in his tracks. “Oh, forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt.”

  Ogilvy. Crow-black close-cropped hair, neatly trimmed mustache, hooded eyes that gave nothing away. He was precisely the man of his photograph, except in living color. Though, as coloring went, the man favored stark. His pitch-black suit contrasted with the snowiest shirt Sophia had ever seen. For a moment he stood as still as the man captured in his picture postcard, then the hair over his lip began to twitch as he grinned. “Miss Ruthven, I presume.”

  “Mr. Ogilvy.” Sophia straightened, prayed travel hadn’t left her terribly mussed, and took one step forward. “I’m sorry I was not at home to greet you earlier.”

  Despite an attempt at smiling, her mouth remained stubbornly stiff, her voice threaded with a note of irritation she hoped he didn’t catch. Though, honestly, the man’s tenacity verged on worrisome. He’d visited twice, and she had yet to extend a single formal invitation.

  “I cannot express what pleasure it gives me to meet you, Miss Ruthven.” He sketched a stiff little bow, which warmed Sophia’s old-fashioned sense of social graces sufficiently to remind her that Jasper Grey, Lord Winship, had never received an invitation to visit either.

  “Must have been a particularly long walk this morning,” Cate said after clearing her throat. “All the way to Regent’s Park, Miss Ruthven?” She shot Sophia a quick wink to ensure she understood the subterfuge employed to explain her early morning absence to Mr. Ogilvy.

  “Perhaps you consider me rude for calling uninvited, Miss Ruthven, but I hoped to see you before I depart from the city.” He glanced back at the drawing room from which he’d emerged. “May I beg the favor of speaking privately with you for a moment?”

  Sophia glanced at Cate, who, as usual, read her thoughts.

  “I’ll have refreshments sent to the drawing room,” she assured before heading toward the kitchen.

  Ogilvy possessed a heavy tread, his footsteps echoing in the hallway as he followed Sophia into the recently decorated room. A gentleman who knew his manners well, he waited politely until she lowered herself to the settee and gestured for him to join her.

  “The house is impressive,” he declared, glancing appraisingly around the room. “How do you manage all of this space on your own?”

  “Oh, this is my brother’s home. He and his wife invited me to visit, and I offered to assist with updating the decor.” There was so much she’d not yet found the opportunity to share with him via letter.

  “Then you own no London property of your own?” The intersection of his dark brows indicated displeasure at the revelation.

  “No, I usually stay at my father’s home, now my brother’s property, in Hertfordshire. We grew up in a small village called Briar Heath.”

  “When I saw your address, I assumed you resided in London.” He was quite displeased to learn otherwise, if his frown was any indication. Had the man truly chosen to reply to her letter because he hoped to acquire her equity in a London townhouse?

  “You reside in Bristol?”

  Before he could answer, a maid entered the room and deposited a tray with tea and biscuits on the table between them.

  “I would much prefer to find a place in London,” he said as Sophia poured him a cup of tea. “Are you fond of the city, Miss Ruthven?”

  “Exceedingly so.” More than she ever dreamed possible. Beyond those moments when the countryside called to her and she yearend for its open spaces, she couldn’t deny how much the light and noise and energy of London intrigued her.

  “Perfect.” His grin returned, and he nodded approvingly after his first sip of tea. “We can live here rather than Bristol. Business opportunities abound in London.” With an abrupt porcelain clatter, he set his teacup down and edged forward on the settee, his hands clasped before him. “When would you wish to marry?”

  Sophia choked on her tea. Scorching liquid seared a path across her tongue. Mr. Ogilvy snapped a long white kerchief from his pocket and dangled it in the space between them.

  “Forgive me, Miss Ruthven. I’ve taken you by surprise. Perhaps you think my boldness indelicate. I am a man of business, not fancy words.” He reached into his pocket again and extracted a small square box.

  Oh no. Please no. She wasn’t ready to disappoint him nor to accept him, if an offer was what he had in mind.

  When he moved off the settee and lowered himself to one knee, Sophia shot up, nearly overturning the table between them. “Mr. Ogilvy—”

  “Miss Ruthven, you cannot be unaware of my intentions.”

  “No, or rather, yes, I am aware of your intentions.” Hadn’t that been much of the appeal of replying to his ad? No pretense. No uncertainty. “I hoped there might be more time for us to know each other better.”

  “As you can see, I am not a patient man.”

  Clearly. Just as Cate had intuited.

  “Wait,” she said as he flipped the hook holding the tiny box shut. He stared up at her expectantly, but her tongue had twisted into a tangled knot. The longer she was silent, the fiercer the scowl on his face.

  “Have I come too late? Do you have another suitor?”

  A little trill of panicky laughter burst out before she could stop herself. “No.” There had never been suitors. Certainly none with the determination and tenacity of the man kneeling before her.

  “Then, may I have your hand in marriage, Miss Ruthven?” He flipped the box’s latch with his thumbnail to display a dainty silver band with an oval sapphire at its center.

  Sophia stared at the ring until her eyes watered. She’d known the question was coming, but a proposal, especially one from a man wearing Ogilvy’s earnest expression, caught her off guard.

  “Ah,” he said as he got to his feet. “You need time to consider.”

  “I insist on time, Mr. Ogilvy. I won’t be rushed into a decision.” A refusal to be coerced wasn’t at all what weighed on her mind.

  Grey. His voice echoed in her head, flashes of his bare skin flitted through her mind. Even his bay scent wafted up from her clothes. Everything about the man conspired to cloud her thoughts.

  And yet to what end? Kisses were not commitment. Nor contentment. Wasn’t that what she’d sought when replying to Ogilvy’s newspaper ad? A few days in the company of a scoundrel—no matter how appealing—couldn’t alter what she wanted for her future.

  “I understand, Miss Ruthven,” Ogilvy said, though his bowed shoulders and clenched fists said otherwise. He glanced at the standing clock in the corner. “I must depart. My train leaves for Bristol within the hour, and London traffic is unpredictable.”

  She’d offended him. Displeased him, at the very least. A panicky flutter welled up in her chest. A foolish sense that her single chance at marriage was walking out the door. “Will you return to London soon, Mr. Ogilvy?”

  “Undoubtedly, and I vow to give you fair warning next time.” His tone was almost playful.

  A smile tickled around the edges of Sophia’s mouth. Ogilvy exhaled, his chest deflating like a balloon. For the first moment since their meeting, Sophia wished for him to stay, wished to know more of this man whose ad had sparked her interest.

  He started toward the door, stopping on the threshold to turn back. “May I kiss you before I depart?”

  The tentative ease she’d begun to feel with him dissolved like morning dew.

  She didn’t answer; he stepped forward. Scandalously near, considering they’d only met twenty minutes ago. Hovering at her side, he leaned in eagerly, his ragged breath against her cheek.

  “A kiss would hardly be appropriate, Mr. Ogilvy.” Funny how those words had not passed her lips when Grey lowered his mouth to hers.

  She was behaving like a fool. She’d allowed liberties
with a libertine. Yet with a respectable gentleman, she clung to the same outdated notions that had brought her nothing but spinsterhood.

  Ogilvy brushed his fingers against hers with the lightest of strokes. “Your hand, at least?”

  Sophia pointed to her cheek, the one closest to where Ogilvy loomed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of a smile, and then he lowered his head, brushing his whiskered lips against her skin. His beard scraped her cheek like the bristles of a brush, and his lips were shockingly cool.

  An unbidden shiver made her flinch away from his touch, but he edged forward. His gaze fixed on her mouth, as if he intended to take the kiss she’d denied him.

  “You forget yourself, Mr. Ogilvy.” Planting a hand on the snow white of his shirt, Sophia gave the overeager man a shove. “I’ve agreed to nothing, and I don’t even know your given name.”

  “Timothy,” he said, his voice husky, eyes blazing. “May I call you Sophia?”

  “Perhaps when we know each other better.” Delay was what she needed, a chance to sort her muddled feelings into the clearer thoughts. “I look forward to our future correspondence.”

  The prospect of a husband seemed so much more appealing when he was a name in a newspaper or ink strokes on a piece of foolscap. A man she could just imagine—and foolishly idealize.

  Ogilvy bowed as he had upon their introduction, though when he stood his expression turned hard, his voice firm and unyielding. “I am pleased to continue our correspondence for a while, Miss Ruthven, but the goal of my ad was wedlock. I trust that is yours too.”

  “Yes. Marriage to a man I know and trust.” After spending years of enduring her father’s high-handed manner, Ogilvy’s imperious tone was as irksome as an overtight corset. She refused to commit herself to any man who expected her to be cowed by a gruff voice and fearsome glower.

  “Will you see me to the door?”

  “Of course,” she said, relieved their sparring had ended. He waited just beyond the drawing room threshold and shamelessly assessed her from forehead to toe as she approached.

  As Sophia passed, he followed her down the hall in his heavy-footed gait. There was an awkward moment as he proceeded onto the front step. He drifted toward her so that his body brushed hers from hip to shoulder. Settling his hat over his pomaded hair, he cast her another a terse look. No smile, nothing to indicate he’d enjoyed their visit any more than she had.

  “I shall send you a letter when I return home, disclosing all a woman could wish to know before considering a gentleman’s suit.” He gripped her hand and bent his head to place a breathy kiss on her knuckles. When he straightened, a heated, hungry look lit his gaze. “You’re a beauty, Miss Ruthven. That I cannot deny. But I wish to be settled, to move into the coming year with a wife by my side. I won’t wait forever.” He touched the brim of his hat, spun on his heel, and started off down the pavement.

  Sophia shut the front door, pressed her forehead against the wood, and released a long exhale of relief.

  “Is that enormous sigh because you’ve just met the man you plan to marry, or because you’re glad he’s gone?” Cate’s perceptive question would have made Sophia laugh if not for the guilt she felt at acknowledging the answer.

  “More the latter, I’m afraid,” she said, turning to face Cate. “The good news is that you were right. I’m beginning to agree with you about the folly of choosing a husband from a newspaper ad.” Sophia crossed her arms. “Tell me what you think of him.”

  “He seems no-nonsense, impatient, perhaps a bit bullish.” Cate answered as if she’d anticipated Sophia’s question and given a good deal of thought to the matter. “He knows his manners and has learned the social niceties, but I suspect he’d rather dispense with formalities.”

  “Not an appealing assessment.”

  Cate shook her head. “I find his all-business attitude admirable, but I can’t detect any sign of the romantic in him.” With a shrug, she added, “All depends what you seek in a marriage, I suppose.”

  Trust, above all. Then mutual respect and admiration. She might never find the passionate variety of love Kit and Ophelia shared, years ago. But could she truly live her whole life without a scrap of romance?

  Every encounter with Grey left her flushed and frustrated, yearning for something just out of reach, even as she told herself it was a mirage. Her first encounter with Ogilvy had simply left her uncertain.

  “I should go up and write a note to thank him for his visit.” Sophia retrieved her travel case from the front hall table and started for the stairs, eager to change out of the day dress she’d worn two days in a row.

  “Was your trip to Cambridge a success?”

  Sophia stopped on a middle step, fingers tense on the handrail. She knew Cate’s curiosity couldn’t be avoided for long. At least Kit and Ophelia weren’t at home to add their questions to the chorus.

  Before she could offer Cate any details of her adventure with Grey, two quick raps at the front door saved her from answering. Cate started down the hall, and Sophia continued up the stairs. After washing and changing, she’d be better equipped to answer Cate’s questions. And hopefully a bit more clearheaded.

  “Telegram for you,” Cate called at the precise moment Sophia reached the top step.

  “What does it say?” Her tired, overwrought mind spun a hundred dire scenarios fit for her detective story, and Sophia sent up a quick prayer the telegram contained no bad news regarding Kit or Clarissa.

  Cate unfolded the thin cream slip of paper and read.

  Change of plans. Headed to Derbyshire now. Hope to find L there. Ever grateful for your aid. G.

  Cate tipped her gaze up at Sophia. “What will you do now?”

  “Do?” Sophia frowned. “Change my gown, take some tea, eat my first decent meal in days. Lord Winship has made no request of me in that telegram.”

  Cate bowed her head as she folded the telegram and placed it into her apron pocket, but Sophia didn’t miss her plumped cheeks and her mouth stretched in a grin.

  “What?” Sophia propped a hand on her hip. “Clearly you disagree. Tell me why.”

  “The man took the time to send you a telegram for the express purpose of telling you the very place in England where you might find him.” Cate sniffed and quirked an eyebrow. “An invitation if not an outright request, don’t you think?”

  Thinking had once been Sophia’s strength. She’d always learned quickly and had often been the sole Ruthven family member to remain levelheaded when everyone else was in an emotional tumult. While Papa was shouting, Mama crying, and her brother sulking angrily in his room, Sophia never forgot to tuck Clary into bed with a kiss.

  My sensible child, Father called her, and she’d cherished that bit of approval from him.

  Apparently age didn’t always bring greater wisdom. She felt anything but sensible now. Because as she stood looking down at Cate, she fought a completely impulsive urge. To follow Grey to Derbyshire, to offer whatever assistance she could in this leg of his journey to find his sister. Yet she knew to her bones that nothing could be more improper.

  Returning Cate’s expectant gaze, Sophia said, “At the very least I need a bath before deciding anything. Can you have hot water sent up?”

  “So you are considering a trip to Derbyshire?”

  “No.” She was beginning to wonder if Cate was her advisor or the devil on her shoulder, encouraging her to chase every capricious whim.

  “Derbyshire is quite close to Leicestershire, is it not? You could visit your sister at her ladies’ college.”

  “A rational argument won’t persuade me to do something completely ridiculous.”

  “Of course not,” Cate agreed with a slow nod. “But you have been missing your sister, haven’t you?”

  She did miss Clary. More than she’d imagined she would, especially considering how her sister’s rebellious nature clashed with Sophia’s traditional—Clary would say rule-bound—attitudes. “If I go anywhere, it will be to Leicester
shire. Not Derbyshire, mind you. I will have traveled more in the week than I have in my entire life.”

  “Should that not be counted a good thing? New experiences are excellent fodder for a writer’s stories, are they not?”

  “You’re very convincing.” Sophia couldn’t help but grin. “If you ever tire of household management, you should consider a career as a barrister, Cate.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I do love an investigation that takes me far afield. What is familiar becomes stale. New endeavors sharpen a detective’s wits and powers of observation.”

  —CASEBOOK OF EUPHEMIA BREEDLOVE, LADY DETECTIVE

  Richard was there, just at the corner of his periphery. If he could only get to him. If he could only reach his side, he’d fight off the thugs. They couldn’t truly mean to kill his brother. Impossible. Richard was indestructible. He was the heir, the one everyone prayed would make the Scandalous Stanhopes respectable again. Everyone needed Richard.

  Now Richard needed him, and he couldn’t fail this test.

  “Ouch!” A girl’s voice rang out like the sharp clang of church bells, waking Grey from the dream he’d dreamed a thousand times. “Watch yourself, sir.”

  Around him, the world tilted, and he clutched the edge of his seat to keep from falling. But he wasn’t falling. He was waking on a moving train, dragging his mind up from dark memories hidden in the murky deep of the past.

  Blinking hard to clear his gaze, he found himself staring into huge caramel brown eyes. The dark-haired young woman across from him snapped her mouth shut, as if she’d intended to continue with her chastisement but suddenly thought better of it. Between them, his legs were sprawled nearly to the edge of her knees, and he’d stuck out a booted foot, which was tangled in the pleated hem of her gown.

  “You crushed my foot under yours,” she said in a voice that was decidedly warmer than her initial shout, more coyness than offense. “What shall you do to make it up to me?”